Kirby found her sitting on the floor of the closet, rocking back and forth, weeping silently.
“Oh, honey. Come on, let’s get up off the floor. Come over here and sit with me. I’ll hold on to you.” They sat on the edge of the bed, Kirby just letting her sob for a bit. “I so wanted to fix things up, but you were sure you didn’t want me to. I hate seeing you like this. I haven’t even been able to come in here other than to peek in when the cleaning crew was done. ”
She wiped her face with her sleeve, trying to hold herself together. “No, you did what I asked. I suspect it will be awhile before there are more days where I’m not falling apart than there are days where I am.”
“Can I tell you something and you promise you’ll realize I did it because I love you?” Kirby asked.
“Ok. . . What’s going on?”
“I asked a Mambo, a voodoo Priestess, to come and bless the house after the cleaning crew was done. She’s agreed to come to the bar on New Years Eve, if it’s ok, to do a blessing there to get us started off right.”
Liz smiled. “Oh, that’s nothing for me to be mad about, Kirby. I know living here has to be weird for you, too.”
They sat quietly for a bit. Finally Kirby patted her on the knee, moving them out of the moment of sadness.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’ll be plenty busy. Lisa’s been after me to tell her when you are coming back to town, as she has a bunch of referrals for you to do more murals. She maintains she has to be first in line, though.” Kirby rubbed her back. “And, of course, you’ve got to help me keep The Ruby going. Oh, and hanging out with me and Mike.”
“So, that must be getting serious, huh? I notice that your cooking skills are even improving; that must be the domestic side you mentioned in your letters. I like him a lot, Kirby. You could do a lot worse.” She grinned and sniffled. “I think he’s a keeper.”
Kirby got bashful. “Yeah, I’m sure he could do better, which is why I’m not willing to let him go. I’m glad he’s getting back to work on his dissertation, too. I want to be married to a doctor, even if it’s one of those piled higher and deeper kind.” He patted her leg again. “Come on, get yourself together so we can figure out dinner tonight. Mike’s holed up in his apartment today to work on some research while classes are out, so it’s just you and me tonight.”
As Kirby walked out the door, the phone started ringing. Liz heard Kirby answer it, figuring it was a telemarketer, as he didn’t launch into loud gossip or laughter, which is usually his response when he answers the phone and it is a friend.
“There’s a reporter on the line; he wants to know if he can talk to you.”
Chapter Eleven
Earlier that morning, Vaughn Morris poured a cup of coffee for himself and another for his wife Audrey as they stood in the kitchen, making toast and waking up.
“I think this could really be the one, Audrey. I just want to make sure you’re ok with me pursuing this as a book opportunity.”
Audrey smiled and shrugged. “Why would I not be ok with it? I have to admit, I’m a bit fascinated myself. If I wasn’t tied up at work, I’d probably try to beg you to follow you around while you do your research and interviews.” She took a sip of coffee. “I’ll just have to be happy to hear about it and read your early drafts.”
Vaughn slid his hand around the small of her back and pulled her in for a kiss on the lips, being careful not to spill her coffee. She kissed him back and play pouted as he smacked her on the bottom, grabbed his own cup of coffee and headed to the bedroom to get dressed for work.
Vaughn’s work as an investigative reporter for The Times Picayune started several years ago, before he met Audrey. A frustrated writer, he long hoped for something to motivate him and interest him enough to write a book of his own. Luckily, he’d been one of the first to hear the story about Wren Anderson when the police reports came in upon her arrest, and he contributed to most of the short news pieces about her. He wanted to get to her before someone else did, and he hoped that his connections with the Orleans Parish police department and legal services would allow him to do that. He knew that pursuing the story would probably lead to some long hours and would take him to some places that were less than savory, but he wasn’t surprised that Audrey did not bat an eye when he told her he wanted to make a go of it.
He was adjusting his shirt collar over his tie when she came in and slid up behind him, pulling the tucked-in tail of the shirt out. He started to protest, but as her hands were on his belt buckle, he decided he didn’t need to get to the office early today after all. The second trimester was definitely more fun than the first one, he decided, as she pushed him back on the bed and straddled him.
Vaughn dropped Audrey off at her shop on Magazine on his way in to the office about an hour later. After getting some real coffee (the switch to decaf was a small sacrifice for him while Audrey was pregnant, especially since the office coffee was decent), he headed for the office. After checking his email and voicemail, he started making calls to see if he could get an interview with Wren. He also started making a list of other contacts to make, starting with the girl she’d last been stripping with, Tiffany Sanders, and the woman she made a widow, Elizabeth Camp.
As long as he could remember, Vaughn had always wanted to be a reporter, or at least thought he wanted to be one. Reporting in the movies always involved intrigue and secret sources who told you amazing things. Being an investigative reporter was right up there with spying in terms of being dashing and dangerous. Heck, even Superman was a journalist as his day job. The reality was far from the fantasy, but he still loved the ideal.
Vaughn had even established a monthly middle school newsletter at the ripe old age of thirteen. In high school he served as the editor of the school paper. There hadn’t been many scandals to cover in those years, but that was just as well as it helped prepare him for the real work on the job. Even the most mundane stories were interesting to him, and he valued feeling like he had a voice and that everyone knew who he was, even if they didn’t really read his articles and opinion pieces.
Growing up in Slidell, Vaughn was mesmerized by the city of New Orleans. Just across the Pontchartrain important things happened all the time--people got shot, mob bosses ran strip clubs and moderately successful restaurants, and Mardi Gras Indians danced in the streets. The good old boy network that was alive and well in Slidell and elsewhere was alive in New Orleans, too, but in the city, things were far more corrupt and interesting. He knew from early on that he would live and work there.
So, it was off to the University of New Orleans when high school was over. With his experience as the editor of the newspaper, it was no problem for him to get into the journalism program. Being valedictorian hadn’t hurt, either. He applied for every scholarship and grant he could find and managed to pay for school, despite never having strapped on football gear.
Once out of school, he’d made enough connections through his professors and from interning at the Times Picayune that landing a job was easy. Audrey and Vaughn met when he was covering a rash of break-ins and burglaries along Magazine Street. The thieves were hitting the smaller stores, aware that hitting the established antique shops would be harder to accomplish and even harder to get away with if they managed the job in the first place. Audrey’s small, vintage shop had only been open six months before it was hit. Insurance took care of the damage, and the story in the Times-Picayune helped ensure that folks knew she’d been hit already and that she wasn’t afraid to talk about it which is often the best security against repeat break ins. And, Vaughn asked her out immediately, so she got a free dinner out of the deal. They’d been inseparable ever since.
Even though he had been out of school for a few years, Vaughn hadn’t had real relationships before Audrey in large part because of his job and the weird hours and situations he wound up in to run down a story. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to ask her out, though, and they were a good fit. They’d spent the evening l
aughing and sharing a bottle of wine at the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen. They still ate there at least once a month, and she was still impressed now as she was that first date by Vaughn’s close ties with the NOPD officers who frequented the restaurant. She’d seen how important his job was to him that first night when it became clear that the cops and wait staff were equally friendly with him and seemed to want to tip him off to potential stories to pursue.
And that was ok with her. Between her and the job, she knew he’d always be too busy for much of anything else. They moved in together almost right away, and they married about a year and a half later in a quiet little ceremony in Slidell, so his parents could be there.
So, Vaughn thanked the job for a lot; the first few years were easy enough, but he found he was growing bored with the surface level articles he was usually expected to churn out for the paper. He was ready to move from mere journalist to actual writer. The case with Wren was the perfect one for him, or at least he hoped it would be.
The murder of Alexandria James was, of course, covered by the paper, and there were lots of stories anecdotally related throughout the Quarter. Wren was picked up at the scene, babbling and insane. Those on the scene indicated that she kept saying over and over that Alex wasn’t really dead, even though she nearly decapitated her, according to the ME reports. She was being held in isolation for now, on suicide watch. Most of the press so far from the newspaper was pretty bare bones, in part because Wren Anderson had been too incoherent to interview. Her lawyer had put him off several times.
After so many calls to the public defender representing Wren and leaving so many messages, he was surprised to actually get a call back from Jan Solaris indicating that her client was coherent and willing to speak to him. He was elated and after arranging the meeting, he decided to start his book research with basic Internet searches for the three central people involved, starting with the most recent victim, Alexandria.
He quickly found her Facebook page, which had not been taken down in the weeks following her death, and it confirmed what he already knew—that she was in a relationship with Elizabeth Camp. He was able to find a few leads there that he could follow by looking at her friends list, and he confirmed that she tended bar at a couple of the local gay establishments, which went to the top of his list for places to visit, as did some of the local businesses on her “likes” list.
Clicking on Elizabeth Camp’s page, he saw that she hadn’t posted since before the murder. Her wall was full of condolences and “call me” posts from concerned friends. He made a note that someone named John Kirby posted recently on both Liz and Alex’s walls, indicating he was watching after Liz, and she was taking a break from posting. He also offered to be her point of contact. Vaughn quickly wrote down Kirby’s number in his notepad and kept digging.
It looked like John Kirby only maintained a Facebook page for keeping up with other people; he was an infrequent poster on his own page. Most of the posts on his wall, at least what was public, were from friends. A few were from California, but the majority were local. He noticed that it looked like Kirby had moved back to New Orleans not long before Alex’s death. There were condolences and “we miss you already” posts that indicated a move home.
There were a few pictures with Kirby tagged in them, so at least he knew what the guy looked like. He branched out, doing some Google searches and found his address and landline number. He also discovered Kirby came from a fairly well-to-do old money family that was dedicated to keeping property in the hands of locals, which was important these days with developers trying to snatch up property to turn into rental condos and time shares.
There wasn’t much to find on Alex and Liz that wasn’t on Facebook, just a couple of mentions of a scholarship Alex earned awhile ago and a short feature on Liz as one of the up and coming local street artists. On Facebook, there were some pictures of the two of them together, smiling and happy, which made him sad. They were both so young and vibrant and so obviously completely smitten with each other. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Liz to walk in and find a deranged stripper and ex-girlfriend tearing her partner to shreds. He only knew that he’d lose it if something were to happen to Audrey.
He then went on the search for information about Wren Anderson. Many of the articles related to the arrest were already printed and in a file folder in his desk, but he wanted to find out what the story was before she went off the edge and went on a killing spree. He was one of the contributing reporters on several of the articles, including the one that indicated a love triangle as he possible cause of Alex’s murder. Looking at the pictures of Alex and Liz together, though, he found it hard to believe they would have given Wren a second thought. They looked very much in love, but he had investigated and read enough stories about failed romances to know that the outer portrayal can be misleading.
He realized that part of his doubt was tied to how different Wren was compared to them. She wasn’t a local, not even from Louisiana, and she spent most of her time in the city hustling in one form or another. In his research, he quickly found that she previously served some minor jail time for petty theft and rolling tourists. It appeared, not surprisingly, that she hung out with a lot of the gutter punks, and in fact she apparently lived on the street at some point herself. He made notes to talk to as many of her coworkers at the Casbah, the strip club where she worked, as he could find, making sure to talk to her boss and to her last dance partner first to get more back story. He also wanted to make sure he talked to Audrey before he started interviewing strip club personnel, though. He knew she would understand, but why get in the doghouse if he didn’t have to?
He decided to call John Kirby. He figured he’d have to make several attempts before he got to talk to Liz, but he may as well start now.
Chapter Twelve
Vaughn could just barely hear voices on the other end of the line. He couldn’t believe his luck; Liz was back in town. He could just barely make out her saying, “I can’t yet, Kirby. I want to, but not today. Can you get him to leave his number?”
Kirby was hesitant to ask her if she would talk to the reporter until he found out that Vaughn was sympathetic and that he was one of the major contributing reporters in the articles published so far.
When Kirby came back to the phone to tell Vaughn it wasn’t happening today Vaughn made sure Kirby wrote down his full name and number. “Tell her to call anytime—that’s my cell number.”
“Will do. I suspect it will be well after the New Year, but I’ll tell her.” Kirby left the note by the phone and went back to Liz.
“Really, Kirby, you have done so much. I am still pretty overwhelmed by it all. I was figuring I’d have to scramble to sell some work soon, and you’ve got it all figured out. Thanks.” She took a sip of coffee, then set her cup down and leaned up against him, her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, holding her close. “I just am glad you’re home, kid. I missed you.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that Mike’s a sad substitute for having me around.” She nudged him, grinning a little as she said it.
Kirby laughed. “Well, don’t get me wrong, he’s a fine bedfellow, but you’re my little sister. Besides, he gets all boring and academic on me sometimes, and I send him to work so he can get some writing done on his dissertation. He doesn’t drink enough.”
Liz shook her head. “We can’t all be boozing it up and watching the boys on the bar, you know. Speaking of bar acts, I guess things have quieted down at The Ruby with our main floor show in jail?”
Wren had caused a stir before her arrest by coming in the bar after work with her dancing partner. They did what amounted to a free floorshow, not stripping, but showing plenty of skin and having make out sessions on the dance floor. While it was good for business, it was a bit over the top, and the bar had started to look more like the frat boy dance clubs on Bourbon than it did a lesbian bar as word got around that there were reasonably priced drinks and a girlie show with no drink mini
mums and no pressure to tip the dancers.
Kirby nodded. “Yeah, apparently there are still some sightseers who want to drink at the killer’s favorite bar, but the vibe is different. It’s actually a bit weird and Goth at times with little vampire wannabes hanging out, asking questions about her. It was really bad the first couple of weeks, but things have slowed down a bit. In the holiday crush and the gearing up for Mardi Gras, she’s becoming old news, anyway, at least for everyone but us.”
“I hope so, Kirby. Between the tours and the reporter calling, though, I don’t suspect outside The Ruby that anyone sees her as old news yet. But, I appreciate the sentiment.” She drained the rest of her coffee and stood up. ”I should go get dressed so we can get on with the day. Sounds like we have a lot to do before our grand reopening!”
No one could remember the bar ever being closed in the afternoon. Sandy had owned The Ruby for a good 20 years, and she never closed early or opened late since taking over business on her first day. New Years Eve was finally here, though, and Kirby was determined that the first day of the year would be a fresh start for Liz and for the bar. He convinced Sandy and Liz that he knew what he was doing and to just let him do it. Sandy, who had booked an upcoming cruise after getting the earnest money and down payment from Kirby, was all too happy to let him do whatever he wanted. After all, he and Liz were the official owners now; they just paid her to stay as head manager until the first of January. She’d been working on getting Kirby, Deanie, and Liz up to speed on ordering and inventory and payroll, too, so her work was done.
Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles) Page 7